The Pacific Rim Collection

by Don Brown

  President Lu stood and began pacing. “They threw their entire air wing at us from that new aircraft carrier of theirs?”

  “Yes, Mister President. That’s where we miscalculated. We didn’t think they would risk their entire air wing.”

  Lu turned and looked out the window at the late-afternoon rush-hour traffic starting to clog Chongqing South Road. “So our armada is decimated. We have damaged part of their air wing, but if we press on to Itu Aba, we run the risk of losing the rest of our ships.” He spun around and looked at the members of his national command structure. “I am reading this situation correctly?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Lien Chan, chief of the general staff.

  Lu sat back down. “Where do we go from here?”

  “If I may make a suggestion, sir?” Mark Huang, the minister of foreign affairs, said.

  “Certainly.”

  “Sir, we must ask the Americans for military assistance.”

  Lu thought about that. “The Americans do not officially even recognize us. And they go to great lengths to play both sides of the fence.”

  “True, Mister President,” Mark Huang said. “But at the same time, they have done more for us than anyone else. They sold us every one of the ships lost in today’s attack. We do not yet know much about Douglas Surber, as his presidency is so new. We have nothing to lose by asking, sir.”

  “Very well,” Lu said. “Mister Secretary, prepare a communiqué to President Surber requesting military assistance from the Americans.”

  “Yes, Mister President.”

  Presidential Palace

  Zhongnanhai Compound

  Beijing, People’s Republic of China

  5:15 p.m. local time

  General Shang stood in front of a large map, aiming a pointer at the last recorded positions of allied and enemy ships and aircraft. “And so, Mister President, although we lost ten aircraft from the carrier’s fighter wing, our mission succeeded. I am pleased to report”—the general turned and faced the president—”that the remaining ships of the task force have turned and are running like rats. My congratulations to Admiral Zou.” Shang nodded at his naval colleague. “And to the People’s Liberation Navy for the great naval victory that we have won today in a battle that will forever be known as the Great Battle of the South China Sea!”

  A broad grin crept across the face of the Raging Dragon. He stood, closed his eyes, held his arms out, and lifted his palms up, as if he were a divine beatific figure.

  “Yes!” His black eyes scanned the faces in the room. “The Great Battle of the South China Sea! Where Taiwan was defeated and humiliated! This after the American cruiser, the Vicksburg, ran from us in fear! Let it be said from this day forward that on this day, China was born as a military superpower!” He slumped back down into his chair.

  The grin disappeared. His face turned quizzical, then took on a determined look. “But we must not stop now.” He looked at Shang. “General, what is the status of our nuclear forces?”

  “Our nuclear forces, sir?”

  “Yes, General. I want to know the status of our ICBMs.”

  “Our ICBMs?” Shang glanced over at Admiral Zou. What was this about?

  “Yes, General. I want to know about our new DF-31A intercontinental ballistic missiles. I want target recommendations against America.”

  “Mister President.” Shang felt a queasiness. “Sir, I am not certain that it would be wise to begin targeting the Americans with our nuclear forces. My concern is that we would be escalating the conflict beyond the current realm of proportionality.”

  Tang cocked his head, twisted his mouth, and stared hard at Shang. “General. It is my job to decide if and when this conflict is escalated beyond the current realm of proportionality. May I remind you that someone—America or Taiwan—already escalated this conflict when they killed my brother.” He leaned back in the chair. “Effective military leadership of a great superpower involves preparedness for every possibility. Leadership that is effective involves—no, requires—delivery of a knockout punch.”

  He leaned forward and peered hard at Shang. “Now then. I want a briefing on our DF-31A intercontinental ballistic missiles. I want specific target recommendations against the United States. If you don’t think you can do that, General, I will find someone who can.”

  Admiral Zou shook his head just subtly enough that Shang sensed that Zou was sharing his concerns about the president’s request.

  “My apologies, Mister President.” He cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “Our new Dong Feng 31A has a range of well over 5,000 miles, sufficient to hit targets along the entire West Coast of the United States and in several Rocky Mountain states. It incorporates design aspects similar to current-generation Russian missiles on which it is based. However, much of the advanced technology for the missiles was acquired from the USA during the Clinton Administration.

  “Each Dong Feng 31A can deploy three nuclear warheads. We currently have twenty-four such missiles in our arsenal, Mister President. The missiles are mobile and can be launched from mobile platforms from any location in China. They are operated by the Second Artillery Corps, which is headquartered in Luoyang, in Henan province.”

  The Raging Dragon just sat there, not reacting in any way. He raised an index finger. “Very well. I am ordering you, General, as a precautionary measure, to target five DF-31A missiles against the American West Coast. Have the missile crews ready to launch if I give the order.”

  Shang considered objecting on the grounds that the order would create a dangerous hair-trigger situation that could put China on the brink of nuclear holocaust. America may have been weakened economically, but her ICBMs could still wipe out all of China. But based on Tang’s current state of mind, now wasn’t the time to object.

  “Yes, sir, Mister President,” Shang said. “I will pass your order on to Second Artillery Corps.”

  Officers Country

  USS Emory S. Land

  South China Sea

  5:20 p.m. local time

  Captain Wang Ligin of the Marine Corps of the People’s Liberation Army-Navy, the Chinese officer in charge of the occupied American warship Emory S. Land, moved through the passageway, rifle pointed forward, with two rifle-bearing corporals behind him.

  He was in command of the seventy-five Chinese Marines on board the Emory Land. Most of his men were concentrated around the ship’s nerve centers—the bridge, the engineering compartments, communications and weapons areas, and on the main deck. These were the nerve centers that allowed the Marines to control the ship.

  Some Marines were guarding the Land’s officer quarters, which, combined with control of the vital nerve centers, gave them complete control of the ship.

  Still, the Emory Land was a big ship, with many compartments and passageways. His Marines, while controlling all the important nerve centers, were not sufficient in number to occupy all the different compartments on the vessel. The fact remained that most of the ship remained unoccupied by Wang’s Marines.

  This made Wang nervous. Two of his Marines were unaccounted for.

  “Sergeant!”

  There was no answer.

  “This is the passageway he was guarding, sir,” one of the corporals said. “One of the women officers is in the stateroom on the far right at the end of the passageway.”

  “On the far right?”

  “Yes, sir. This is where we left him.”

  “Let’s go.” Wang suspected that the sergeant may have decided to take advantage of the woman officer, who was quite attractive and even had seemed familiar. A smile crossed Wang’s face at the thought.

  “Is this it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Wang knocked on the door. “Sergeant.” He knocked again. Nothing. “Sergeant! Open the door.”

  Nothing. He tried the door. It was locked.

  “Corporal, open it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The corporal kicked the door open. Wang stepped into the empt
y stateroom. “Are you certain this was the stateroom, Corporal?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Captain!” The other corporal bent down and pulled on the corner of a blanket that was sticking out from under the rack. “Look! Is that blood on this blanket?”

  Wang looked down at the dark stain on the gray blanket. “Pull it out.”

  “Captain! A body! It is the sergeant!”

  The Situation Room

  the White House

  5:23 a.m. local time

  Secretary of State Mauney hung up the phone. “Mister President, President Lu Yen-Hsun of Taiwan is requesting a video conference.”

  “When?” Surber asked.

  “Now, sir. Right now.”

  Surber looked at his advisers. “Gentlemen? Cyndi?”

  “Let’s hear what he has to say,” Secretary Lopez said.

  “Agreed,” Vice President Morgan said.

  “Very well,” Surber said. “Arnie, get President Lu on the flat-screen.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Arnie Brubaker picked up the phone and mumbled some instructions. A few seconds later, the flat-screens all along the conference table and on the walls lit up with a bright blizzardy image that looked like a heavy snowstorm, and then a live image of the president of Taiwan appeared.

  Surber said, “Mister President. This is Douglas Surber. Can you hear me, sir?”

  A second passed. “I hear you, Mister President, and now I see you,” Lu said. “Thank you for taking my call.”

  “Tell me, Mister President, how may I be of service to you this morning?”

  Another second passed—the delay from the electronic signal traveling halfway around the world. “We need your help, Mister President. Half of our fleet sailing to Itu Aba to retake the island has been destroyed. The attack by the regime in Beijing came from the aircraft carrier Shi Lang. We have been forced to abandon our mission … for the time being. The carrier has resulted in a major swing in the balance of power in the South China Sea and poses a grave threat to the Republic of China.

  “Mister President, your government has been the blanket of protection for the Republic of China since the Communist revolution. We are the only hope for democracy to ever return to the mainland. This you know.”

  Surber looked at Mauney and Lopez. He looked back at the screen. “What would you like me to do, Mister President?”

  “Mister President, this carrier is a threat not only to the Republic of China but also to America, to the United States. Remember, Mister President, I know why you seized the Shemnong. You did so for good reason. Remember too, sir, that it was our government that asked for a US Navy doctor to be flown to the Shemnong. We know of China’s mass atrocities. We are aware that this carrier has launched attacks on two of your ships, the Emory Land and the Vicksburg. There is a reason why they call Tang the Raging Dragon. I understand how dependent your country has become economically upon Communist China.

  “Tang must be stopped. He is a charismatic genius whose goal is world domination. He started this current crisis with his unprovoked attack on Itu Aba. You and I, our countries, we are forever bonded together. Please help us, Mister President. The future of both of our countries depends on it.”

  Surber looked around at his advisers.

  “I think we need to talk it over,” Vice President Morgan said. Others nodded.

  “Mister President,” Surber said, “I am sympathetic to your cause. You make some good points. I am preparing to address our nation in about two hours about the situation in the South China Sea. I will discuss your request with my advisers and get back with you yet today. And please know that you and your staff and the people of the Republic of China are in our thoughts and prayers.”

  “Thank you, Mister President.”

  Entrance to engine room

  USS Emory S. Land

  South China Sea

  5:30 p.m. local time

  They worked their way down through the ship, steel ladder after steel ladder, the droning roar of the ship’s engines growing louder as they approached the bottom of the ship.

  “Last deck,” Stephanie said.

  Gunner’s shoe touched the steel-grated deck. He looked up. Stephanie was almost all the way down the ladder.

  “This is it,” Stephanie said. “The engine room is through those doors.”

  Gunner looked around. No sign of anyone. “I don’t think they’re in there, but anything’s possible. I’m going to step in and make sure the coast is clear.” He handed her the pistol. “If one of them shows up, take ‘em out.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  He stepped into the engine room, into a labyrinth of pipes, boilers, flashing lights, steam gauges, and electronic control panels.

  “Commander!”

  Gunner looked to his left. A senior chief boiler technician, wearing the nametag “Roberson,” was standing behind one of the control panels.

  “Anybody else with you, Senior Chief?”

  “Three of us, sir. Me and a couple of first classes. Guys, come out here!”

  Two petty officers, decked out in blue camouflage uniforms, joined the senior chief.

  “Any sign of the Chinese?”

  “A couple were down here an hour ago. They walked around with their rifles. Looked like they were searching for somebody. Then they left.”

  “Did they see all three of you?”

  “They just saw me,” the senior chief said. “They didn’t see my men here.”

  “Did they say anything?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Stay right there, Senior Chief.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gunner opened the engine room door and motioned.

  The First Daughter of the United States, packing a .45-caliber pistol and with a Chinese assault rifle strapped over her shoulder, stepped into the engine room, drawing wide-eyed reactions from the senior chief and the two petty officers. Gunner sealed the hatch behind her.

  “You okay, ma’am?” the senior chief asked.

  “I’m fine,” Stephanie said.

  “You got any weapons down here?” Gunner asked.

  The senior chief hesitated. “Well, that might just depend, sir.”

  “Depend on what?”

  “Well, sir … it might just depend on whether some officer is ordering me to be a cooperative senior chief and turn those weapons over to the Chinese. Because if that were the case, sir, I’d say no, no weapons down here.”

  “How about if the senior officer were to tell you that we need every weapon available to go along with the ensign’s pistol and these two assault rifles we took off some dead Chinese in order to start picking off Chinese Marines and take this ship back?”

  A grin crawled across the old sailor’s face. “I’d say for a cause as worthy as that, sir, we just might be able to round up three .45-caliber pistols and about sixty rounds of ammo.”

  “Excellent,” Gunner said. “Okay, here’s the deal. They’ll try a manhunt all over the ship to find their two missing Marines. We’ll probably get a visit soon. We need those guns ready. We need to get your two petty officers, me, and Ensign Surber out of sight, ready to ambush them. We need to kill ‘em, take their weapons, and get those weapons into the hands of our guys.

  “To keep the noise down, avoid attracting a crowd, I’d rather take them out without firing a shot. But if we have to fire, we fire.”

  The senior chief grinned. “Well, it just so happens, sir, that I’ve got silencers for two of those pistols.”

  “Excellent,” Gunner said. “Let’s get moving. They’ll be here soon.”

  MSNBC Capitol Bureau

  Sixteenth Street, Washington, DC

  5:35 a.m. local time

  He thought of the bold audacity of the great American journalists who had broken the great stories in the last hundred years. Ben Bradlee—the Pentagon Papers. Seymour Hersh—the My Lai Massacre. Woodward and Bernstein—Watergate. Nick Davies—Murdoch and NewsCorp.

  In eac
h case, he thought, these brave journalists broke their stories to the embarrassment of the administration sitting in power.

  They were lions of the field—destined for the Mount Rushmore of journalism.

  And now he—Wylie Shepherd—was poised to set his name above his contemporaries in the annals of journalistic history.

  He donned a navy blazer and stepped into his producer’s office.

  “Bob, I need to talk to you.”

  “About what, Wylie?”

  “I need to go on air.”

  “When?”

  “Right now.”

  USS Emory S. Land

  South China Sea

  5:45 p.m. local time

  Captain Wang Ligin, accompanied by two enlisted Marines with rifles cocked in firing position, moved through the passageway four decks below the main deck.

  As the senior Marine aboard the ship, Wang was the onboard commander of Operation Counterpunch at its point of attack. And while the attack and capture of the large ship had gone smoothly, the murder of one of his Marines and the disappearance of the young woman officer had changed the dynamics of the mission. He feared that a rebellion had begun. The question was whether he was dealing with an organized rebellion or an isolated incident.

  He had to find the woman. She was at the center of it. The body of his Marine was found in her stateroom. He would find her and kill her.

  They moved through the passageway, slowly and deliberately.

  The shrill beeping in the distance sounded like a fire alarm. Perhaps a radiation alarm.

  Wang stopped and held up his hand.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “An alarm?” the sergeant said.

  “It’s that way,” the corporal said.

  “Let’s go.”

  They moved toward the sound. Step by step. “Isn’t this the sick bay?”

  “Yes, sir,” the sergeant said. “This is where we brought Corporal Li’s body.”

  “It is coming from in there,” the corporal said.

  “Cover me,” Wang ordered. He pushed open the door and stepped in, rifle first.

  The body of a Chinese Marine was sprawled out on the deck in a pool of blood, a gash in his neck.

  “Sergeant! Corporal! Get in here!”